


quiet when i'm coming home

by skateside



Category: Bring Me The Horizon
Genre: AU, Drabble, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Internalized Toxic Masculinity, References to Addiction, Transphobia, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 19:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18016691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skateside/pseuds/skateside
Summary: a perfect man doesn't need help.





	quiet when i'm coming home

 

Oliver ignores the bitter cold wind, how it bites at his skin through only a couple layers. He doesn't remember when he sat down on the pavement or why, too focused on the pain of his cracked knuckles and the bruise blossoming underneath his eye.

There's snow gathering on the street ahead of him. He watches it fall, lit up by the streetlight he's sat next to on the curb. He should go home. Enjoy the heat, maybe. But his flatmate is just gonna ask who hurt him, why, when, does he need to call the police, and Oliver doesn't want to deal with it. For a fleeting moment he considers going home with a stranger, like a bum. Like he did when he couldn't handle his alcohol.

 

But he'd rather put up with Jordan interrogating him than possibly staying the night at a serial killer's den. Just not right now. Maybe not soon, either.

 

He leans against the lamp pole with his shoulder, ignoring the deep ache around his collarbone. He didn't break it, no, he'd recognize if he did. He's so exhausted he could nod off right there, but having a terrible habit of sleepwalking doesn't mix well with literally sleeping on the side of the road. He doesn't know where to go next. It feels like the back alley fight he just got his ass whooped in was hours ago, but in reality it's only been a few minutes. He can tell by how red his knuckles are. He's been struggling to keep track of the time, lately.

 

Jordan's probably worried, he considers. Poor guy can't even call, Oliver's already lost his phone somewhere. Maybe he doesn't want Jordan to call him, anyways. Over the phone would be a terrible way to tell your friend you've gone and got wasted again.

Then again, Jordan has always been understanding. And caring. But almost _too_ much, the guy's so empathetic he doesn't give a shit about himself. Oliver tries to point it out, but Jordan's an even better deflector than he is.

 

He was understanding when Oliver's panic attacks started. Caring when he came home late stoned. But he always tried to help, and Oliver didn't want help. He didn't know how to accept it. He didn't deserve help, in his mind.

 

Oliver finally stands. Pushes himself up off the ground with a grunt, dusts the snow off of his jeans. He looks down the road, to where home is. He walks the opposite route.

 

Jordan is his best friend. The first one who found out Oliver had gender dysphoria and had been wrapping himself with ace bandages. Oliver didn't care about the reprecussions, broken ribs or what have you. Nobody ever would have told him what a binder was if he hadn't met Jordan, someone who actually understood the severity of Oliver's condition and had considered his health.

But Jordan cares _too_ much, sometimes. He doesn't try to grate Oliver's nerves when he says seeing a therapist is better than getting into fights and drinking, and Oliver knows he's right, but that doesn't make it any less overwhelming. Oliver's idea of self medication was all he was accustomed to. He blames it on himself for beating the image of a perfect man into his own mind.

 

A perfect man doesn't need help.

 

Oliver fights because he wants to win. When he sits down at a bar he always listens, listens for the littlest thing that can excuse setting him off. He wants to prove himself. Wants that voice in the back of his head telling him that losing is emasculating to pipe down every once and awhile.

But tonight, losing was less of an option than it ever has been.

 

"Look at him," He heard from the fellow two seats down at the bar. "That one, right there," He whispered to his friend. "I'll bet you that's a tranny, right there."

 

Oliver blacked out until he was sitting on the curb. The guys were taller, bigger than him, had less liquor in their systems. He wanted to win, he _had_ to. The shame washes over him as he keeps on walking. Part of him really does want to go home, go cry onto Jordan's shoulder and blabber about feeling so humiliated and then blame it on being drunk, but once was his limit and he still can't stop thinking about the first time he did it.

 

He hasn't made it a block, but finds himself sitting on the curb again. He's crying before he can catch himself. He tries to ignore how the wind picks up, so bitter his bones feel frozen. He just focuses on pulling himself together, stop embarassing himself despite how empty the streets are.

 

He clenches his fists and prays he doesn't start panicking. He doesn't believe in God but he might start if it keeps him from spiralling.

 

He doesn't realize someone's approached him until he hears, "Hey, you good?"

 

Oliver looks up quickly, looking at the guy who asked. He seems familiar but Oliver can't place that face. It's a small county, they probably went to school together or something.

 

"Quite alright," Oliver flat out lies, because he's wiping his tears away pathetically as he says it.

 

"Rough night, then." The guy sits down next to Oliver. It's weird, because nobody around here ever offers a helping hand. Jordan's carefulness didn't leave Oliver shellshocked because he wasn't from the same county, but everyone around here would be considered dickish to non-natives. The guy notices the confused look on Oliver's face. "Don't read much into it, you've just shown me a familiar sight."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"You're a drunk," The guy says blatantly, "I've seen it before."

 

Oliver is offended at first, because who the fuck is this guy? Making assumptions about him? And he is _not_ a drunk, because he knows how to handle himself.

Except for when he ends up on the side of the road in the middle of winter crying and, yeah, maybe he does have a problem.

 

"Yourself?" Oliver asks. The guy shakes his head.

 

"Some friends, in high school."

 

Oliver's still trying to place this guy, and wonders if he knew of any of those kids. "Right."

 

"You trying to get home?"

 

Oliver looks down. Focuses on the palms of his hands, tries not to imagine Jordan's face when he steps through the door. "I guess I should be." He looks back at the guy. "Why do you care?"

 

"It's like I said," The guy stands, offers Oliver a hand. "A familiar sight, and all that."

 

Oliver takes his hand and hoists himself up. The thought from earlier about going home with a serial killer or whatever flashes through his mind. This guy looks harmless. "What's your name?"

 

"Matt. Come on, it's cold, I can walk you home."

 

Oliver returns the favor and tells Matt his name, but hesitates to accept his offer. Not because, you know, the serial killer thing. But because he doesn't want help.

 

It's like Matt reads his mind, because he says, "It's not embarrassing to get a little help here and there, you know?"

 

Oliver's already looking down the road that leads home. He pulls his hand away from Matt's, he hadn't realized he'd still been holding it. He thinks about it for awhile, still just looking down the road. Probably driving Matt mad, because who the fuck doesn't want to just get out of this weather right now?

 

But Matt's right, despite how vulnerable it makes Oliver feel.

 

"Okay, yeah. Sure."

**Author's Note:**

> written 6/3/19. something quick to let out some nasty feelings I've been having lately. comments & kudos are appreciated. stream amo.


End file.
